The Slender Man
by Delillium
Summary: When Sherlock becomes immersed in a complex case dealing with strange child kidnappings and gory surgery, he begins to find that this case just may be unlike anything he has ever dealt with before. What's worse, is his frequent encounters with a looming figure of a man and this new illness he's contracted. Could all these things be related or has his brilliant mind finally cracked?
1. Chapter One: The Beginning

_Running, he could feel all the wind in his lungs escape him, his legs burning, and that gripping fear that gave him just enough adrenaline to continue the chase. _

_He looked upon the large house that was just in his view, a large white plantation surrounded by trees. He felt as though he could almost feel his mother's hands on his face, smell his father's alcohol, and taste the sweet brew their maid always prepared for them upon request. _

_Yes, he could feel that comfort, but just as he was about the break through the forest, it stretched a mile longer before him and his short legs barely had been able to make it to tree line before. _

_What he was running from, he hadn't the faintest clue, yet in the moment, it seemed to make sense to simply run from whatever it was. _

_Whatever it was, he knew very well, it was dangerous, rentless, and most of all, blood thirsty. _

_He wiped the blood trickling from his nose, and as he pulled it away, he could feel all his life seep from his body as the pounding of footsteps behind him quickened and the mysterious figure behind him lurched, wrapping its arms around him deftly. _

_This was it. _

_These were his final moments. _

"Bzzzt"

His eyes shot open, staring wide at the ceiling as his heart beat within his chest cavity.

"Bzzzt"

He looked towards the origin of the noise to discover it was none other than his mobile. He slammed one shaky hand upon the infernal device, slipping it up to his ear with haste as he let out a soft sigh, his voice apparently had not caught up with his brain yet, and so, the greeting was relinquished to the inspector on the other line.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm here. What is it?" Sherlock turned, squinting to ensure he was reading the time correctly on the clock. It was only eleven PM, had he really retired to bed _that _early? And had he really only been sleeping for an hour?

"Oh, did I wake you?"

"That's not the point. What is it that you needed?" Sherlock replied, shaking his head as though the other man were able to actually see his expressions through the phone.

"It's the third child kidnapping, we're thinking these are all definietly connected. We found the first child who was kidnapped this morning."

"Dead or alive?"

"Dead unfourtunately, but this what I think will really interest you. He was found dead of course, but apparently he was impaled on branches some feet up a tree, and there were no signs of struggle. Then, here's the kicker, his internal organs were individually removed, placed into plastic bags, and put back into position just as they were...still in the bags."

Sherlock squinted in the darkness, rubbing one eye sleepily as he stood and flicked a light switch on. He leaned on the wall and gave a soft sigh, "Where?"

"Tall Oaks is the name of the neighborhood. Humberland St. I don't honestly think you'd need an exact address, there are cars parked all over the place."

"I'll be there in twenty." Sherlock replied nonchalantly, jamming the 'end' button without awaiting a reply, and threw it onto his bed, quickly dressing right back into his clothes, putting aside his pyjamas with a silent sigh.

Pushing the phone into his pocket once more, he fled the bedroom and made it into the living room. John sat on the couch, a newspaper in his hand though his eyes were distracted by the bright flickering picture on the television.

"John."

John turned quickly in surprise to see the famous sleuth, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah?" John replied, but upon noticing the trench coat, gave a curious expression, "Thought you were working on your website?"

"I was. Now I'm not. Time to go, there's a new case."

John stood promptly, grabbing his own jumper as he followed the fleeing Sherlock out the door. He turned, his eyes catching the television screen, and ran forward, turning it off, before flying down the stairs and practically throwing himself into the taxi that Sherlock had already settled intp, phone in hand as his fingers dashed to text who he assumed to be Lestrade.

"What's this one about?"

"The kidnappings." Sherlock murmured as he stuffed the phone back into his pocket and viewed the passing city.

John raised his eyebrows, "Oh, right. How many have there been now? This makes it three then, right?"

"Right." Sherlock replied, blinking quickly.

The images from the previous nightmare still freshly burned into his brain as he released a soft sigh.

"Are you...alright?" John asked with a quirked eyebrow.

Sherlock turned to him as though shocked before facing the window again, "This is it." He deflected skillfully as he watched in relief, John look out his window to gawk at the sea of flashing lights. This was more famous than the Taxi Murders, which he thought had really been the center of attention for the news in the weeks following.

However, this was something he'd never seen before, thousands of men and women were surrounding a house, tying to burst through the wall of officers who locked arms forming a barricade against the people.

Sherlock stepped out from the cab, the cabbie giving him a fretful look as John raised his eyebrows and shrugged, sliding him a rather large tip for the burden.

And just as they pushed themselves through the crowd, millions of lights were blinding them. Snapping photos of the two detectives left and right. Sherlock cocked his collar up in order to conceal his face, just as John lowered his head as though embarassed. It wasn't as though they were celebrities, not yet anyway, however, whoever was working on this case in particular, were bound to be in tomorrows newspaper.

Probably the front-page headline even. The case had started off as the McEver Child Kidnapping, of course since the McEver's were a rich and prosporous family, the case ended up being popularized fast. Soon enough, another child perhaps an hour away from the McEver's household, was kidnapped.

And now, two hours away from the McEver's was the third child kidnapping, and the McEver child lying dead. Murdererd in cold blood.

Sherlock pushed himself through the barricade in his usual brash attitude, "Move, move, move. Some people are actually trying to solve this you know."

And John tagged closely behind, his eyes in slits and a deep frown already set onto his features, "Sorry, sorry." He murmured to each appalled face as Sherlock strut forward into the average looking home to be greeted by none other than Gregory Lestrade, a rather grave look on his face with his hands on his hips.

"Sorry about the media, but there's nothing much we can do at the moment." He sighed, giving a shrug as he lead them through the antique furnished living room and out the back door. "The body of Elliot McEver is just in that trench. Mr. and Mrs. Paul are in their dining room, but I suggest showing your utmost sympathy, which I know may not amount much for you Sherlock, so I suggest maybe questioning them in the morning when the initial grief is over."

"Mornings no good. Tomorrow morning I suspect another body to be found, and their _'grief' _will only be worse when they realize their son is next." Sherlock replied as he looked the trench up and down, moving forward, off the deck, and into the grass. Beside the trench, he crouched down, the body bloated and moist ontop of the water.

Lights were positioned as close to the body as possible in order to shed some light. Sherlock moved forward slightly, sticking his head out as far as he could to peer into the dark eyes of the child who seemed to be frozen, wide with fear.

Just as Lestrade had described to him, the body was split open, the child naked, but inside were small plastic bags with his organs contained within.

"John." Sherlock called, his eyebrows downward in deep thought as he subconciously reached out to touch the plastic baggy, checking the label for a brand name. There was none.

"Yes?" John replied, crouching beside him before giving the body a glance, "Oh, Jesus." He turned momentarily befre giving a sigh and then composed himself to stare back at the child. "You couldn't have warned me? I wasn't expecting a naked child with his organs wrapped in plastic."

"Not wrapped, bagged, John. Tell me, are these _all _in their correct places?"

John looked it over again, grabbing one of the light and holding it towards the body as close as possible, squinting as he studied it.

"It appears that way, yes. The murderer must have some sort of medical experience."

"Or, a handy medical book." Lestrade commented flippantly, lips pressed together.

"No, the organs, they're clean cuts, no mistakes. This wasn't done in a brash manner, it was done in a way that shows absolute expertise." Sherlock replied, as he pulled away, clearing his throat.

"However, he didn't die of..._that_. He died of blood loss from being repeatedly slammed against tree branches seven feet above his height. Isn't that right?"

"We'll, we didn't have the exact measurments, we-"

"Now you do. There are no signs of struggle. So we know that this boy was somehow lured to his kidnapper. It was a man he would trust, a police officer, a doctor, a fire fighter. However, a doctor or a fire fighter sneaking into your house would seem too suspicious, this boy was not stupid he was given the best schooling and education available. It would have most likely been an officer."

"You're suggesting an officer-"

"No, Lestrade, I'm suggesting a man was dressed in the uniform, not that he was actually an officer. A child of eight would not ask to see his badge, much less when informed there's been a break in, in his house."

John folded his arms as he stood, "A break in?"

"Absolutely. What else would make the child feel compelled and rushed to follow his every command, yet not too endangered to scream out for their mother or father?"

Lestrade turned towards the house quickly, wavering his hand towards him, "Come on. Everyone."

Sherlock continued, his mind already dashing to get each and every word out his mouth as fast and as timely as possible, "The officer assured his parent's were safe, then snuck him out the front door, into his car, brought him into the forest, killed him, and kept his body to perform this _'surgery'_ on him. Judging by the state of decomposition, I'd say he was kept preserved quite well. Perhaps he has ties to a medical facility where he snuck him, stuck him into a morgue. I would say he was a surgeon, with ties to a police department. Forensic Pathologist? But no, he bought some sort of costume. Something simple and fake, however, in the dark and in the state of emergency, what would an eight year old child really do? Now, the question is the motive. Why kill the boy? He didn't hold him for ransom. Why dump him in this back yard? To forewarn the parents of their childs fate? Not likely. He put it there to warn _us _of _their _childs fate if we didn't catch him. He wants to be sought out."

Lestrade blinked, "Alright then..Did everyone get all that?"

There were a few nods around him where other officers had gathered upon Lestrade's command. "Alright, now that all sounds great, problem is, that this time there _was _evidence of struggle."

Sherlock squinted at him, his eyes dating back to the house as he rushed across the dew lathered grass, and into the house, disregarding the doormat which John dutifully wiped his feet upon, before the moved into the dining room throough an arched doorway.

A couple, of perhaps thirty years sat in oak chairs, holding each other with tear streaked red faces cuddled beside each other. They looked up at the entrance the man made and Sherlock let out a breath of air.

"Hello. Are there more questions or-?" The husband begun, swallowing down the lump in his throat that had formed over the half-hour of silence.

"Your profession?"

"I'm..I'm an officer, why? Will that help with finding my son?"

Sherlock gave a triumphant smile, "It just might, unless one of you work in the hospital?"

They shook their heads slowly in confusion, "I'm sorry, but why the _hell _are you smiling, exactly? My son was just _kidnapped _from me."

"Your son. That's right. They've all been boys too." Sherlock mentally noted, "Alright, that's all. _Thanks._"

And with a quick investgation of the house, he returned to the outdoors, noticing the media had mostly packed their bags to call it a night. Few reporters remained, but those that did badgered him with the usual questions of who was a suspect, how he deducted the suspects and so on.

Sherlock didn't answer a single question, walking by placidly, head ducked low and and John in tow as he entered a called taxi and made his way back to 122B Baker Street where he would resign himself, for the night, to his lap top, researching dedicately his facts into coming up with a suspect.

He smirked as he sat before his laptop. This was going to be too easy, he'd need to research into a new case by morning.

However, he was absolutely, one-hundred percent, for once, _wrong_.


	2. Chapter Two: The First Deductions

Sherlock's eyebrows were pointed downwards in absolute confusion, an emotion that did not bode well with the detective. He tapped his fingers across the table, as he realized his certain statistics matched not a single man in perhaps the entirety of England.

His fingers fumbled with the cool plastic of his phone, debating to give Mycroft a ring or to continue his own limited search. Though his search had been going on for about three hours now, John not even being entertainment as he'd fell asleep on the couch, snoring noisily.

He sighed in defeat, going straight to his address book and pounding down on the call button as the blue highlighted Mycroft's name.

"What a lovely surprise."

The name echoed in his ear tauntingly within the first few rings.

"How can I help my baby brother?"

Sherlock could visualise the smirk that rested on his smug face as his eyes darted around the room, awaiting a response.

"You know what case I'm on and you most certainly have had access to the deduction I made via the police _somehow_ of course, run a search on who this profile fits."

"Done. I was just waiting to see what you would do about it actually."

Sherlock whispered a muffled curse and looked around his computer, his eyes full of hate, "Damn. How could I have been wrong? No, I wasn't wrong...he's just not searchable."

"Not to gloat, but _I_ _can_ _find _**_anyone_**." Mycroft replied with just a tinge of mirth hanging off his words.

Sherlock held back the urge to roll his eyes, "Not someone whose had everything about them _hidden__ professionally_."

Mycroft fell silent, his voice suddenly breaking through the silence after a moments hesitiation, though it returned with all the pompous he could muster,"I doubt even _they_ could hide from me, good night, and I suggest you get some sleep. My people tell me you're beginning to look simply dreadful. Lestrade may take you off the case in the morning if he sees the state you're in, you're lucky the kidnapping occured at night."

"Yes, thank you so much, Mycroft." Sherlock replied sarcastically, hung up, and threw his phone across the table with a heavy sigh. He looked up at the ceiling.

Where did he go from there?

He sat silently in his chair, biting his lip. He was never wrong. Never. And this most certainly would not be one of the exceptions. His deductions were air-tight. None of them were based off assumption, though he didn't go into great detail on how deduced some of the things he'd figured out, he was in a rush.

Another dead body by morning was certainly an incentive.

He shook his head, it was eleven at night, and still, he wasn't about to give up. He'd stay up all night if he had.

Actually, in all honesty, he would prefer to. The same reccuring nightmares were haunting him for the past few weeks, and he'd rather not wake-up breathing heavily and his heart beating out of his chest.

God, the _fear _they brought on, such frivolous nightmares, was so intense. It was as though they were real. They _felt _real. He could _taste _the early morning humidity. He could _feel _the dew on the grass and the breathing of the man behind him.

He twitched.

He had a case to work on.

"Ah!" Sherlock's eyes opened, a smile stretching across his face, "Right! That's it."

He needn't figure out _who _the killer was, just _where. _Ultimately, if a genius did not _want _to be found, and his cover was so airtight that even Mycroft Holmes, _the _British Goverment, couldn't find you, then they would never be found. In the end he would find out anyway.

However, their location.

This killer wanted to be followed, but he didn't want it as easy as searching through identities.

And on a second thought, the killer may not have been what Sherlock deduced. He could have simply had accomplices. A doctor, a police officer, and himself, a no body with a genius mind. Or perhaps, there were just two people, a doctor and police officer. Perhaps there were three as stated previously and the other two were being held against their will?

No, no. That was certainly not the case, no one could have done such masterful work without the drive to do it. So, either there were two, an officer and a doctor. Or a third wheel who was the evil mastermind behind the entire plot.

There could have been one to three people pulling off the entire stunt. And if it were only one man, he would have to have thousands of connections. A powerful man in the criminal side of England.

It was possible. Yes, absolutely possible. It could have been one person or three seperate people, of course, but that wasn't what mattered.

They or he didn't _want _to be figured out by identity. They wanted this to be a game because they knew if there identities were exposed via files, they would easily be caught by the great Sherlock Holmes. They needed a game.

A good game of cat and mouse.

He would have to _track _them to their hide away.

Yes, of course! They were _clever!_

The blood stained tree!

He would have to see the tree, track the path they must have walked from or to.

He pulled his phone out, punching on Lestrade's name and bringing the phone to his ear, it was answered on the fourth ring meaning Lestrade was now home, and possibly sleeping.

"Damn it." Sherlock whispered, "..Damn.."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade mummbled groggily, "Hold on, honey, I'm on the phone." He whispered.

Sherlock gave a bewildered look, "Ehem, what?"

"No, I wasn't talking to you, Sherlock. I was talking to my wife. What is it that you need?"

"Your wife? Home at night? Astounding, I'm quite happy for you. Congratulations. However, this probably means she's now cheating with someone who has a night job."

"Or it means she's not..." He made a noise in his throat in place of the word '_cheating_', "..anymore. Get over yourself. What did you _want_ other than to wake me up and put me in a bad mood?"

"A bad mood. You wouldn't be in a bad mood unless you suspected her cheating as well. Anyhow, I wanted the tree. I need to see the tree that the boys head was bashed in on."

Lestrade groaned quietly, "Sherlock, sleep. In the morning, we'll go to the tree but for now we already know that the second child is _dead_. There's nothing we could do at this minute. We've got police surrounding all the houses, the murderer can'tget anywhere near the perimeter without being seen. Get. Some. Sleep. Good _night_." And with that, Lestrade hung his phone up and Sherlock was left with a deep frown residing on his face.

He stood up hurriedly, laptop in hand, facing his bedroom and heaved one very last sigh before poking John in the shoulder and hurrying off.

"Wh-Wha'?" John mummbled, "Sorry, must have dosed off for a minute or two.."

Sherlock was already closing the door behind himself, lying down on the white sheets and glaring at the ceiling

It was an almost indescribable feeling when you knew what to do and were being told you couldn't go do it. It was like being a child all over again.

Sleeping in a warm bed when that murderer or murderers, were killing kidnapped chidren and holding them in freezers.

He couldn't bring himself to do it. It was impossible. Unspeakable. He'd stay up the entire night if he had to, researching into this killer. Researching until his eyes bled for the love of God.

Well, in all truth, it was the nagging mystery of who these people were that kept him going, but he could lie to himself as much as he wanted.

He held his laptop firmly, typing hurriedly into google. He'd lost hope even for his most advanced software.

It was within an hour that he stumbled upon something more disturbing than he'd ever enjoy letting on to about. He would never know _why _a particular website link stuck out more than any of the other hundreds he's scrolled through. However, the bright neon blue of the words, _' ' _seemed to really attract his attention.

Odd it was, indeed, but based on this small nagging hunch in the back of his brain, he clicked it.

His eyes sped through the introduction, a few words being shared about this supposed _'Slender' _was actually an entity called _'Slender Man.' _

His eyes slowed down when he reached a particular paragraph labeled, **_Method of_**_** Murder**._

_'The method usually consiting of beating the victim against tree branches multiple feet above their height, and then removing the organs, placing them into plastic bags, and then putting them back into their respective places. If a victim should escape, slender sickness will plague the targeted victim. Though it is more than likely the victim had experienced slender sickness before hand. The sickness, however, will begin over again as the slender man begins to stalk him or her again. This time, however, he may offer you great powers in exchange for your soul. Or, if he sees you not worthy, he'll simply kidnap and attempt to kill you once again. The only way to kill the slender man, is said to be by taking a blood sample from him and another human drinking the blood. It should be warned that the human who does this however, will suffer some sort of consequences. Though these are unknown at this point in time, more research is attempting to be conducted by our group.' _

He stared, baffled at the screen momentarily. Slender Man? Some sort of magical entity causing the death of those children?

Oh, no. That's not it, of course not. He laughed lightly despite himself and shook his head at how quick he'd been to jump to conclusions.

His fatigued mind was playing games with him.

Of course not. The people, however, performing these murders, _must _of had been followers of this figmented entity.

Another note: He would need to track down the creators of that website, without question. Mycroft may be of some use afterall.


	3. Chapter Three: The First Sighting

A rythmic static filled his ears, he blinked repeatedly and put a finger beside his ear before moving his entire hand over one. It started soft as the broke past the first line of trees, and continously begun to rise in volume as they embarked further and further into the woods.

He squinted at the ground, noticing no one else experiencing symptoms of hearing the same thing. It was becoming almost..unbearble.

A twig snapped beneath his foot, he could feel it, but no matter how much his mind reeled to try and _hear _the snap, it couldn't.

A cold rush went up his right arm and he turned his head slowly, as to not look suspicious.

His heart beat in his chest, he swore he could feel cold breath on the nape of his neck, yet his mind reminded him that if nothing was there, he would be deemed unfit for the case.

Lestrade had already pointed out his concern earlier when they met up at Sherlock's apartment, stating boldly, that he looked dog sick and that he wasn't sure if he should have an unwell man handling a case of life or death for children.

Sherlock assured him he wouldn't be taking orders from him any time soon and left with grace, his trench coat flapping behind him dramatically.

Lestrade _'agreed' _to let him on the case until he had further reason.

Showing symptoms of hallucinations would only worsen his case because not only would he be thrown off the case, he'd be forced to see a doctor, and it seemed John liked to punish him by making him see a different doctor than himself, which really made no sense to Sherlock when he had one handy at the flat, but John seemed to strongly believe his friendship with the detective would create bias.

Sherlock couldn't see that. Whatever he needed, he needed, whatever was wrong, was wrong. Why not tell it like it was? In all actuality, Sherlock believed it was the news-giving potion John detested. If it were bad news, John wouldn't want to be the one to deliver it.

Sherlock _still _couldn't even understand _that_. If someone were dying, you simply told them. It wasn't exactly anyones fault, so why feel awkward gving them that news?

Sherlock figured he'd never understand and decided to shoo the thought away by determining it as some variation of sympathy.

Sherlock finally got his head to the spot of the cold air, and it seemed as though it took him hours.

Nothing, was there.

Absolutely nothing.

The cold breath went away, and the static slowly faded just as Lestrade turned to him and pointed at a rather tall tree, "-ere...es...ee."

Sherlock watched his lips, _'Here's the tree.' _

The great sleuth looked with a critical eye towards it, looking at the blood stained branches some seven feet upwards.

"Right well.." Lestrade quietly murmured, folding his arms across his chest with an expressionless face about him, "I'll just be leaving you to it..We've got some other work to be done around the third victim's house."

Donovan and Anderson followed in behind the DI, heads held high as though this would lower the confidence of Holmes, though obviously, Sherlock was far gone from Earth as he looked over every small detail in the tree.

Ten minutes went by, Sherlock still standing, staring at the tree.

A loud ring burst into the air, and a round of flapping from the birds in the trees came out almost simultaneously. John sighed, "That's Lestra-"

"I don't care who it is, John, honestly. If you're going to talk to them, leave."

John looked on, blinked once and clicked the _'talk' _button before walking off with as much nonchalance as he could. He'd gotten used to the flippant remarks, unfourtunately, though they never stopped stinging, even if it were considerably more dull.

Sherlock looked around the tree, looking down at the roots then back at the branches. From what he could see, the body was slammed repeatedly by it's side in some places, then on other sides, the victim was slammed by it's back. The blood was not fresh, so he supposed, no other child had been killed just yet. It would take until the third victim to be killed for their to be a noticeable pattern, if they were creating one.

Lest they found a new tree to use, or different means to the kill the children with.

He still had the smallest hunch however, that a child would be found today.

Without a pattern, it would show that the killers were frantic, perhaps nervous, or facing difficulties. If they were as clever as they were showeing to be, they wouldn't allow to show through vulnerability at any point.

Back to the tree however, judging by the fact that the body was slammed in different positions each time, it seemed rather odd.

No man could hurl a child nine or ten times, seven feet above their heads, and they land in a perfect position each time without blood smearing considerably. They would have had to have a boom!

They didn't throw the child from up a different tree, judging by their position, that was..impossible.

But was it just as impossible as their being a dark, supernatural force behind this?

The static came back, at full force, ringing in his ears loudly, this time he did not pull himself back and pushed both palms against his ears. Cold breath on his neck returned and he turned quickly to find, perhaps twenty feet into the forest, a shadowy figure, taller than any man he'd ever seen in his life.

He ran.

He did not run away, however, he ran towards the mysterious figure with all the energy he could harness.

The figure ran as well, however, he ran away.

It was him.

The murderer.

An eight foot tall man!

Just one single man was there!

The static became louder and louder, whispers suddenly enterwined within them it. His heart beat quickened and he could feel it move upwards into his throat as his feet hit the ground harder.

Tall.

Slender.

It _must _have been a figment of imagination! There was no other explanation! And just as he thought that perhaps, he would be able to give a description of him, if perhaps, it turned out he was the killer, and his mind was exaggerating the height in his state of sudden paranoia, his leg fell straight into a large watery hole of mud, and fell straight back and he attempted to pull it free.

Footsteps and heavy panting came in from behind him and he turned quickly, eyes slanted in accusation as he made out that the man behind him was indeed, John Watson.

"Sh-Sherlock. What the-.." He resumed a proper posture, folding his arms, "What happened?"

Sherlock pulled at his leg again, mummbling a few unpleastries before John surpressed an eye roll and pulled the leg out himself.

"On the count of three, pull. One, two, three, pull." John murmured as he took the thigh, just under the knee, in his hands.

He pulled the leg and a uction _'pop' _sounded. Sherlock scuffled away, in attempt to win some of his dignity back, though it seemed barely possible when large glops of mud stuck to his leg and foot.

"Nothing happened. I was tracking down some leads."

"Without me?"

"You were on the phone with Lestrade. I suspect he found another body. Victim two."

"Yes, but I.." He gave an exasperated sigh, looking out into the forest where Sherlock previously had been running.

"What?" Sherlock asked defensively.

"What?" John replied back.

They stared each other down for a moment, before they agreed to disagree. "We should see the next body."

"Wouldn't you want to change your trousers first?"

"No time, we need to get there as soon as possible..the fresher the scene the better.."

John gave a disgusted look but silently complied as he followed, once more, in the detectives shadow.


End file.
